


Can't sleep, it's too Underdark.

by ursa_maritima



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Critical Role Relationship Week, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursa_maritima/pseuds/ursa_maritima
Summary: written for the critical role rs week; my first day's spins resulted in Kima and Trinket.A little interlude from VM's long rest in the Underdark.





	

It's not that it's dark. It is dark, but that's not- look, it's not dark the way her tent was, tucked carefully away from prying duergar eyes; she’d slept lightly but easily then. It's not even dark the way _that room_ was, with the low red glow from the strange outcroppings of rock, the occasional flickering torch; she’d even been able to sleep there, even if to the outside observer it may have looked like she’d simply lost consciousness. Kima’s been in a lot of shitty places, fought a lot of battles best described as ‘There Is Not Enough Alcohol In The World To Forget This But Dammit I’m Gonna Try’ and no fucking way was some bullshit fuckin’ duergar calling himself a king gonna poke her with a couple’a sticks and call it torture. Kima’s been in council meetings, she _knows_ torture.  
This dark, though- this is something else. The stone wall conjured by their druid had sealed them into safety, but they hadn't risked any fire, any light. This darkness had weight, texture; made her try to see light where there wasn’t any, hear sounds when there weren't any- beyond the snoring, which was impressive. Kima had tuned out the explanation about halfway through the dragonborn’s excited description of modifying prestidigitation to create a ...thing because he’d sounded too much like Allura. Allura, whom she hadn’t spoken to in months and months and maybe now it was even up to years, whatever, it didn’t matter, that’s fine, everyone’s busy, she-  
  
She’s not gonna think about that. She’d been doing very well at not thinking about how it felt to know that despite never getting a single letter back, not the briefest of sendings even, Allura had discovered that Kima had gone missing in the Underdark.  
  
Still. Kima’s never been afraid of the dark, not even as a child. Sure, she was briefly afraid of what lives _in_ the dark, but then she discovered that nothing likes getting a solid blow to the face, not even nightmares. So it’s definitely not the dark making it hard for her to fall asleep.  
It’s probably the cold. She’s been living in Vasselheim, true; but torture saps your reserves and even if you’re only losing it a few drips at a time, the cumulative effect is still fairly significant blood loss. An unfortunate side effect of the adventuring life is intimate familiarity with the various ways you can end up chilled to the bone, and blood loss is Kima’s least favorite. Healing does wonders for pain, for stopping bleeding, but it’s not very good at warming. Maybe Saranrae is different- she knows the little white-haired gnome had cast some healing on her, but she was running on too much adrenaline to have noticed; she’s always felt Bahamut’s grace as a cooling breeze. Her armor usually warms up quickly, but this armor isn't her armor, with its quilted gambeson that kept her warm and was carefully fitted yet still somehow managed to pinch her right hip when she tried to sleep in it and left her with a permanent weird little callus on the inside of her left thigh, her armor that had been stripped from her and stashed in some dirty little treasure room in that bitch-king’s keep, not that those duergar would recognize fine crafting when they saw it, of course, it was _hers_ , her armor, and she wanted it back, she-  
  
She’s not gonna think about that, either. Fuck it. Her skin might still be crawling after the sensation of the cold studded leather conforming to her shape, she might still be tugging on lacings and prodding at pauldrons trying to make it not fit so well, so unnaturally perfect, but it’s fine. Armor is armor. The greatsword she was given doesn’t even have the little rough spot in the wrapping like her maul has, nothing to irritate her grip, and even if it feels strange to wield a sword again instead of a war maul, it’s not like she’s unfamiliar with the weapon. It certainly worked well enough to destroy that mindflayer.  
Oh. Right. No, it’s not the cold keeping her awake. It’s _definitely_ the fact that there’s a mindflayer somewhere in the darkness with her. She gets it. Sometimes you get to pick your battles, sometimes you don’t get to pick your battles but you do get to pick your comrades, and sometimes the universe says “hey, Kima looks kinda bored, let’s give her a pack of kids to keep an eye on in the Underdark and just to make things interesting, let’s have them adopt a mindflayer!” A _mindflayer_. That they keep trying to _nickname Clarence_. Kima’s pretty sure she owes Drake an apology for trying to tame that Roc all those years ago.  
So, yes; that’s why she can't seem to get to sleep, despite the bone-deep tiredness. She keeps waiting for the air to stir, currents disturbed by threatening presences, and- there. A rustle of sound, a subtle scritch of something hard against rock, both at odds with the usual tiny noises of a camp at rest; Kima curls her fingers around the grip of her borrowed sword and waits. There’s a soft shhrush, something soft trailing on the edges of her armor, and Kima frowns. Everyone in the party’s wearing either leather or plate, and while a fair number have cloaks, there’s no creaking of armor along with the soft fabric-like sound. The mindflayer, maybe, although she’d expect him to be soundless; she’s still puzzling over the oddity when there’s a sudden puff of hot, vaguely fish-scented air across her face and a heavy, furry mass flops gracelessly to the ground beside her. 

_(Trinket sniffs, worriedly, at the new den-mate. This one is little, though bigger than Little-Warm-Light and Loud-Little, and smells like Little-Warm-Light does, like sharp-bitter-rock rather than Mother’s tree-leather-pine. This one smells like pain, too, and Trinket hates that smell. He smells it too often in his family; now Other-Mother’s usual sharp-leather-pine smell is overlaid with fire-pain-burn, and it makes Trinket’s skin itch. This one- Little-Bright-Light, maybe?- this one reminds him of the way Mother smelled when Mother lost fur-life and became the tree-leather-pine Mother is now; empty-tired-pain and fear-anger-sad. Little-Bright-Light needs to sleep, the way Other-Mother and Mother and Big-Loud and Loud-Little and Little-Warm-Light and Tree-Tall-Thunder and Key-Leth are sleeping. Fire-Scale-Smoke is not sleeping, Trinket can tell, which is good, because Fire-Scale-Smoke is closest to Not-Den-Mate. Not-Den-Mate smells like nothing at all, until he smells of cold-death-pain. Trinket does not like Not-Den-Mate. Trinket has been staying awake to keep his nose on Not-Den-Mate, but if Fire-Scale-Smoke is also awake, and Trinket is awake, then Little-Bright-Light does not have to be awake. Little-Bright-Light is new, though, so maybe Little-Bright-Light does not know that it is safe with Trinket and Fire-Scale-Smoke on guard. Trinket eases his way out from behind Other-Mother and Mother and pads quietly over to tell Little-Bright-Light to sleep.)_

It’s the bear, Kima realizes after a long tense moment’s consideration, and she slowly uncurls her fingers from the hilt. Why the bear had decided to come drool on her elbow, she doesn't know, but here he was. She felt the warm burst of air again, this time with an almost interrogative edge, the barest hint of a hrrf of sound. “Shoo,” she finally croaks in a low whisper. “I’m not food.” If Kima didn't know better she’d think that the responding grunt came with an exasperated eyeroll. could bears even roll their eyes? She shakes her head- _pull it together, bairn_ \- and stretches out one hand to push him away. Her fingers sink into warm, surprisingly soft fur, and the bear- the only word Kima can think of is purrs. Her hand drags through his fur as he flops onto his side, his head coming to loll sideways across her chest, body a solid line of heavy fur that radiates heat. Under the faint fish-breath, he smells like clean dirt, like earth and pine forests and cold air, and Kima finds it hard to turn away. She understands why there was a brief scuffle between the twin half-elves over who got to sleep closest to the bear; he’s like a furnace. He’s also big enough that Kima is entirely hidden from view, and given the way he’s flopped down beside her, any motion he’d make towards standing up would wake her instantly. And if Kima kicks in her sleep, he’s not likely to complain about it the way...no. Kima stuffs that train of thought back down. If she concentrates on the heat coming off the bear, pretends the packed dirt beneath her is that little ridge in her old armor, and imagines that the goliath’s snores are instead coming from a cranky dwarf elementalist, maybe she’ll be able to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I was virtuous and did not edit this in order to study for my stats test, so...


End file.
